The Diary of Lily Luna Potter
by paperchik
Summary: "Forgive me for being insane. I don't know how else to be." A closer look at our favorite hero's daughter through ink-stained pages. If you're looking for fluff you won't find it here.
1. Chapter 1

"I'm gonna buy this place and burn it to the ground. I'm gonna put it six feet underground."

-A Rush of Blood to the Head, Coldplay

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><p>I like to think of myself as different. Different in the sense that I have no taste for the fame or the glory. Different in the sense that I don't like who people think I am. There. I said it. I basically said that I don't like myself. Myself. Now, there's a silly concept. Do I have a self? Do I have anything besides what I've been made out to be?<p>

I'm confused. My life is confusing. See, there's the little problem of fame.

FAME. False. Awful. Malicious. Empty.

My dad, my one and only dad, is practically the most famous wizard of all time. He's Harry Potter. You've probably heard of him.

In some ways, I think he hates the fame as much as I do. But for some reason, he manages it. He manages to be a good dad, husband, and auror as well as going to interviews and book signings and being nice to his adoring fans. For some odd reason, this infuriates me. He, the most famous wizard, like ever, can deal with it all when I, his unimportant daughter, cannot. It makes me feel inadequate. It makes me feel weak. But most of all, it makes me feel unecessary. I was named after people who are better, kinder and braver than myself. I bear the moniker of a different generation. I was dragged forcibly into the past the very day I was born and named.

I cannot be who I want to be when I am who I am.

And I think that's all I'm going to write for now.

Lily

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><p><strong>This is a rewrite of my original story <em>The Diary of Lily Luna Potter<em>. Obviously, it's far more mature than my previous story. I hope all of you who did enjoy my previous version will enjoy this all well. **

**Cheers.**


	2. Chapter 2

A question that sometimes drives me hazy: am I or are the others crazy?

-Albert Einstein

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><p>A different day, a different world.<p>

I hate going to sleep. It makes it seem like your problems are going to be gone in the morning, that everything will be better, but that's a lie. All of your mistakes, all of your shitty problems are still there in the morning, waiting. Tomorrow is not a better day. Tomorrow will not be what you want it to be.

I yelled at mum today. She told me that I need to get my shit together. I told her to fuck off. I hate yelling. She wants me to be someone who does things instead of someone who spends their time being morose. She's the one who called me morose. It's not a word I would use to describe myself.

I've spent most of the summer brooding, true, but I'm not depressed. Just thoughtful.

I cut my hair the other day. I no longer have long, curling locks. My hair looks like it got hit by a trolley. I'm fine with it, but mum hates it with a passion. It's something I've always wanted to do, but never had the courage for. Dad says it's because I'm a teenager and that's what teenagers do. I wanted to scream that I'm not a teenager, that there's someone else trapped in here, but they'd just be worried that I'm possessed or something. That would be a relief, actually. I hate being left alone in my head. When I close my eyes, I don't see anything except black. When I think very hard about nothing, I can't stop thinking about something.

I have eight fingers, two thumbs, and ten toes.

I have two eyes, two ears, a mouth, and a nose.

I have two arms and two legs and a head that's actually attached to my body.

I am alive. I can breathe.

Only too bad that all of the things I have serve no purpose to anyone but me. And I don't deserve any of it.

I better go before my mouth tells my brain to say too much.

Lily

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><p><strong>A review would brighten up my day considerably.<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

I've tried so hard to forget his face. I can't because the image seems to be etched onto my eyelids.

Black hair and green eyes. Open mouths and hurried screams. Cries for help that go unanswered. It's too much. I can't take it anymore. I want it to end. This hurts.

I'm done.

Lily


	4. Chapter 4

I've been reading over what I've written the past few days and have decided that a few of my entries are decidedly melodramatic. You know what they say, about word vomit? I have that. Sometimes, I just scrunch up my eyes and clench my fists and write whatever I'm feeling. Sometimes I say what I mean and sometimes the words just get jumbled up and don't come out right. I guess that's what happens with children, too. Sometimes, they don't come out right. Sometimes, they get messed up and can never be happy and screw up and make their parents mad and can't do anything right. Maybe that's what happened with me. I want my parents to be happy with me and proud of me but it's hard. I can't make them happy no matter how hard I try.

The bar for me is set as high as it can be. I'm supposed to be a strong, independent woman, but that's damn near impossible when I don't know what I'm supposed to be independent from.

Sometimes I lie awake at night and close my eyes and imagine all the different lives I could have had. Sometimes I obsess over the things I said during the day that made me feel like a complete idiot, but I know everyone else has already forgotten. I still obsess, though. Sometimes, I pretend to be someone I'm not. Some girl who knows what she wants and isn't afraid to go after it. I've decided I'm not a very good actress. Sometimes I pretend to cry and act out dramas that happen to other people but never to me.

I suppose there's enough drama in my life already but it never seems to be enough. Families are supposed to break apart. No one is normal, right? It seems like everyone should be messed up but it also seems like not enough people are. You know what they say, that someone else always has it worse? Well what if that's not true?

I should probably go. These words are starting to taste generic.

Lily

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><p><strong>Thanks for the feedback guys.<strong>

**Reviews are nice.**


	5. Chapter 5

"If ever you should die I know I'd shave my head-it's not a morbid thought, I mean it out of love."

The Bitter End, Blind Pilot

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><p>Sometimes I feel as if the world is baring its teeth at me. Others I feel as if it wants to hold my hand. My disposition is thus to be wary.<p>

My curse is to be easily forgotten.

Fame only gets you so far. Being someone people know about is not enough. I detest fame but without it I would be another person on the sidewalk, lost to the crowd. Without it I would be just a grain of sand on a nameless beach, a forgotten shore. I can spout all the pretty lines I want about it but it does not matter. I do not matter. I am disposable.

I wish it were not so. I wish I was able to contribute more of myself, like saving the less fortunate or ridding the world of an evil tyrant like my father but that will never come to be. I am destined to be no one special. That is my curse.

My mother will not speak to me anymore. She says that I'm wasting my life.

She told my dad to pick a side. He still hasn't. Now when I see him he just pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. James is too busy to talk to me. The rest of the family have their own problems and lives to worry about. Ever since Grandma Molly died it seems like there is no guiding force. We're all starting to fall apart, little by little. It seems like it is easier to write about my problems than my joys. However many of them there are.

I don't mean to be a depressing person. Sometimes the only things I can say are sad ones. This lets people leave me to my silence without feeling too bad about it. People don't like being around me because most of the time I hurt their feelings. I get on their nerves, like an itch that won't go away or a leaky spout. I try to be friendly but I don't think my face knows how to smile. It hasn't had the practice.

I used to smile. That was before, well, you know.

Before it happened.

I saw him again today, you know. It was just a glimpse but it was enough for me. High cheekbones. Eyes so cold they'd make you wince. Not me, though. I enjoy staring at him far too much for it to be normal.

His eyes hold a depth too great to be measured. You could drop a line in and it would fall for all the time there is in the world. I don't mind. I like to get lost in them.

I try to close my eyes and forget that HE was the one who made it all happen, HE was the one who ruined everything. Not, not ruined. Destroyed. Decimated. Demolished.

I still don't think he meant to do it. Everybody else was so quick to point his way with shaking, grief-stricken hands. They all blamed him but forgot to blame themselves.

For letting it happen, I guess. For letting it get to the point where everything snapped and the lines that had been holding everything upright for so long were severed, falling like dead leaves on the coolest of autumn days.

The words are coming far too easily. This should be harder for me to communicate. The words on paper come easily enough, but when I try to speak they stick in my throat like they were slathered with glue. My esophagus is a gummy, sticky mess, stopped up so tight nothing will come out. Not even a whimper.

How desperately I want them to hear!

How I ache to say the words that must come out!

I fear I will explode if they do not.

Lily


	6. Chapter 6

Today, the shadows on my wall began to move. They distorted and twisted to form new, dangerous figures. They acted out a scene that had a recurring role in my darkest of nightmares. I could see it happening, vividly. I could see his eyes open, as wide as they could, his mouth clenched in a scream of unforgettable horror. It was the sort of supreme terror that causes madness, the sort of terror that makes you unable to live any longer in the civilized world. I wish I could say that I purged the memory from my brain, but I doubt that even the strongest bleach could accomplish that.

Maybe I should be locked up.

Maybe they should drag me away forcefully, gripping my arms while I drag my feet roughly against the ground, grabbing onto doorways as we would pass, nails leaving horrible, long scratches, trying fervently to retain sanity but having it slip away, little by little. My mind would no longer be mine. It would be replaced by a sort of manic intensity, giving me a will to harm without thought and an urge for revenge against those who had the audacity to call me crazy.

Crazy sounds like a nice change.

There are moments when all you can do is be quiet and not speak and just stare at the world around you and wonder why it all is.

Those moments always happen whenever you don't want them to, when you family is staring at you, expecting you to answer their questions. You know you have the blankest of looks on your face and you know that they see you as an empty, dead thing, but you cannot bring yourself to care, and instead wander around in the vastness of your head, searching for answers but producing only questions.

They ask you what's wrong and you say nothing.

_Nothing? Fah! There's always something. Nothing is ever perfect. No day is ever carefree. Everybody has responsibilities and things to do so really do they care what the answer is to the question they asked in the first place?_

Is something wrong?

_Their eyes have already glazed over, they don't actually care. It's a formality. Now that they've asked it, they don't feel any sense of responsibility. You could kill yourself and they wouldn't hold an ounce of guilt. In fact, they'd love it if you tried._

Some days, I can see it in the faces of my family; they are waiting for me to kill myself. When and if that day ever comes, they won't be surprised in the slightest. They'd have all seen coming.

At my funeral they'd eat heaps of food and cry a little but then shrug it off because really, what did I contribute when I was alive? I was the family's problem.

I can say this all so clearly because I do not give a shit whether they like me or not.

I cannot forgive them for what they have done. They claim to be democratic and benevolent but all I see is hatred and blind mistrust. They point fingers. They blame those whom they had claimed to forgive.

I cannot be around them for any length of time without feeling the familiar tinging, the nausea, the aching abdomen. I cannot stomach them.

So I try my hardest to just ignore them. I wish I could leave this house but I have nowhere to go. I have no money of my own and no friends. I am destined to become the insane wife in the attic, not a wife but a spinster, with only the cobwebs and the shadows to keep me company.

I was a happy child. My mum used to call me _tenacious_. That's not a part of me anymore. I have become nothing. Most little girls, when they are very young, have dreams of growing up and becoming someone important. A ballerina. A famous Quidditch player. And Auror. Savior of all wizard-kind. I will be none of those things. My grades did not reflect my true intelligence. Once upon a time I truly cared about things like that but now grades seem so unimportant. I am destined to be a crazy spinster, haven't you heard? What would I do with all those O's? I am nineteen. I'm supposed to be out there, living my life. Making friends and getting a job and forging my own sorry path in the world. It is not to be.

My days are spent writing in this journal or going for long walks. I walk until my feet are numb and aching. Other times I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling, thinking. I've developed a taste for Muggle music. Some of it sounds weird and distorted but I listen anyway. The lyrics, they speak of other people's problems and I can get lost in them for a while. The music, sometimes, makes me forget. Other times it makes me remember, so viciously, of what I have lost.

My family speaks of the way the world was when it was shrouded in darkness, they speak of the unrest and the killings and the fear that permeated the land. Sometimes, very rarely, my father speaks of all the friends and family that he lost during the war. He chokes up and leaves the room before he can finish his stories. I remind myself that my life could be much worse-then I remember his face.

Already as I am writing my tears are falling on these pages. I fear I must go before I drown the whole world.

Lily

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><p><strong>Sorry it took so long, guys. Reviews would be appreciated.<strong>


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